


slake your thirst

by merionettes (acchikocchi)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Teasing, gaiter kink, thigh kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/pseuds/merionettes
Summary: Felix accedes to a particular request.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 242





	slake your thirst

**Author's Note:**

> you know that point when you're hooking up with someone, and you agree to do something they're super into even though you think it's kind of ridiculous, supposedly because it would be weird to make a big deal out of refusing but actually because you're starting to catch feelings? yeah. that.

Felix crosses his arms over his chest. "Are you happy."

"Oh, Felix." Sylvain's grinning at him like it's solstice, his birthday and the millennium festival all rolled into one. "You're so good to me."

He is. Why else would he be standing in the middle of Sylvain's room, in their old dormitory, wearing—this is so stupid. Just his gaiters, hugging his legs past his knees, ass and chest and thighs out there on display. 

The cold air raises goosebumps on his arms and shoulders. Sylvain's eyes wander down him from head to toe, dragging over his bare chest, his naked thighs, his dick. Hungry.

Felix's shoulders jerk, a reflex, like he's trying to shake the glance off even though he isn't really. "So what do you want me to do."

Sylvain leans back against the headboard. He's totally naked, so damn comfortable in his own skin. "Come over here."

Felix's bare feet are cold on the flagstones. He holds Sylvain's gaze, refusing to shy from meeting his eyes. He must look so pissed off. Really attractive.

"Come on. Up here." It doesn't seem to bother Sylvain, anyway. Sylvain's eyes are on him the whole way, like they're trying to make up for the cold. Felix gets up on the bed. Kneels and sits back, waiting.

"Okay." Sylvain licks his lips. Felix can see he's getting hard just looking. Good. "How about you touch yourself for me."

Felix stares at him.

Sylvain is waiting, looking so expectant. Felix grits his teeth and wraps a hand around his dick. 

It's not bad. It's never bad jacking off in front of Sylvain, whose gaze is _very_ appreciative. It's not what he wants, though. He wants Sylvain's hand, which is bigger than his own, palm harder. He wants how it pulls just right. Sylvain knows exactly what he wants, by now.

The thought, the sense memory of Sylvain's hand on his dick and Sylvain curled behind him, breathing in his ear, makes his hips rock forward. Felix tightens his own grip, a little bit past what feels good into the edge of what hurts. He gasps. His knees are spread wide. Sylvain's stroking himself slow and lazy, teeth digging into his lower lip—that fucking mouth—eyes lidded. 

Unbelievable. "This is it," Felix says flatly. "This is what you wanted. You don't even want to get involved."

Most people fall for the flatness, the disbelieving affect. Fucking Sylvain always knows what he's really saying. That grin comes back, even more self-satisfied. "Aw, Felix," Sylvain says, sounding so pleased with himself. "Do you want me to?"

 _Ugh_. He tries to look as disdainful as possible. It's no good—it's never any good. Not when he's trying. "This was your idea," he deflects, ineffectively. "Don't let me get in the way."

"Okay," Sylvain says. "Okay. Come here—" Only it slurs a little, _C'mere_ , a stupid thing to make Felix's pulse jump in his throat.

Felix lets Sylvain pull him forward with a hand on his arm, walking up on his knees. When he's close enough Sylvain drops his arm and slides the same hand up his flank, slowly, so that Felix feels the heat through the cloth: spanning his thigh, then up to settle around the curve of his ass, strong fingers in a gentle press. So he's got a thing about Sylvain's hands. So what.

Felix is up on his knees, and Sylvain's still leaning back, so for once Felix has the height advantage, looking down into Sylvain's upturned face, that one hand spread there, holding him in place. For a second something in Felix's throat flips upside down. 

Sylvain squeezes his ass and lets go. He tugs Felix down again, guides him into place. Felix keeps his stare flat until he figures out why Sylvain's going for. He ends up propped back on his elbows, legs spread wide. Sylvain's hands settle on his thighs and nudge them a little farther apart.

He can't help it, he catches his breath. Sylvain catches his eye and grins. So fucking full of himself, so fucking attractive.

Now that he's arranged to Sylvain's satisfaction, Sylvain kneels between his legs, looking him over like a rare delicacy. " _This_ ," Sylvain says. "This is what I wanted. Yeah."

Felix wants to roll his eyes, but he can't, quite. Sylvain runs a thumb along the hem of his gaiters, where dark cloth meets pale thigh, rubbing back and forth. Digs in, then lets go and watches the thumbprint flush with color. Felix squirms, just a little. _Get going_ , he's about to say, when Sylvain lowers his head.

Felix's lizard brain associates that sight with one thing. His dick jumps, quivering. But of course that's not what Sylvain's after, that would be too fucking easy. Sylvain's mouth goes to—Felix's thigh, of course, obviously, dragging his tongue along the skin where it emerges from the gaiters. He sucks a kiss, then another, scrapes his teeth along tender skin and bites down. 

Felix tries to bite back a curse, and succeeds in making a garbled noise instead. His dick is rock hard now, fully erect and right there in Sylvain's face, but Sylvain doesn't seem to notice. He kisses a path down to mouth along the soft skin of Felix's inner thigh. For a second his hair brushes Felix's dick. Felix curses for real this time, jerking forward helplessly, but Sylvain isn't even paying attention, fuck him. Fine. Felix manages to get one hand up and dig it into Sylvain's thick hair. He likes doing that, likes pulling at Sylvain's hair, like he can tell Sylvain where to go. Sylvain likes it, too; usually he'll growl a little, like it gets him hot, going where Felix wants him.

Not this time. This time he just makes a satisfied noise, totally absorbed in his mouth all over Felix's thighs. "God, your legs," he's murmuring, in between sucking more marks into existence. "Fucking incredible. Want your thighs wrapped around my neck forever. Want to just—live here, between them—"

They're just legs, Felix wants to say, but to be fair, he appreciates Sylvain's thighs, too. In a different way. They're so fucking solid, all thick muscle. He could probably get off just by riding them. He's thought about it before. There's an idea for next time. 

"—look fucking unbelievable like this," Sylvain's saying like this. "So hot, Felix, you get me so hot, just looking at you—" Sylvain's voice has dropped to that low register he uses, not even consciously, when he wants to sound sexy. Felix's brain says it's annoying. Felix's dick unfortunately doesn't agree.

Felix clenches his molars. " _Sylvain_."

"Yeah. Just a minute, baby. Hold on." Sylvain's mouth is down by the tender join of hip and thigh, just—breathing, warm air brushing Felix's dick, which jerks, straining for it—all of Felix is straining for it, for Sylvain's mouth, his lips, right fucking _there_. 

"Okay," Sylvain says, like it takes effort, and gets his hands on Felix's thighs, easing him to—turn over. What the _fuck_.

" _Sylvain_ ," Felix says, and he's furious to hear the edge of a whine in his own voice, "what the fuck are you—"

"Go with me, okay? Promise it'll be worth it."

Felix is going to kill him. He's going to murder him. He's going, turning over on his stomach, ass up. He's so hard. He's shaking, trembling, from head to toe, dick aching and smearing his stomach and the sheets, making a mess before Sylvain's even put a fucking finger on him.

He braces himself on his forearms, presses his face into the mattress. His breath hitches. "I'm gonna kill you."

Sylvain's stupid big hands are on his thighs, holding them apart. Sylvain's head must be bent because Felix can feel that warm breath on the back of his thighs now.

"Uh huh," Sylvain says, and sucks the skin against his teeth. 

Felix bucks, hard. It's the exact same thing, mouth all over the back of Felix's thighs, taking his time. Lips sucking open-mouthed kisses, teeth sinking into the meat, tongue lapping in languorous strokes, like he's trying to lick Felix up. Sylvain mouths up to the crease of his ass and thigh, stops to lavish attention there. Felix's nails dig into his palms. He pants into the sheet. Sylvain moves on up.

It's torture. Worse than that. Sylvain's got him held firm but he tries to get one hand free to give himself a little relief, if Sylvain won't—Sylvain's grasping his wrist.

"Not yet," Sylvain says in his ear, his whole, god, his whole big weight lined up against Felix, stomach to ass, cock to thigh, one inch away from pressing Felix into the mattress—Felix tries to tug his wrist free, but Sylvain holds it in place. "Wait. I'll get you. Wait for me."

Some kind of growl comes out of Felix's throat. He's never letting Sylvain take the lead again. Sylvain kisses his way back down Felix's spine, reveling in every inch. It's obvious now where this is going but why does it have to take ten thousand years to get there. Felix is dying. He's going to come right out of his own body. He's soaking with it, with sweat, with precome, with muscle tremors. When will Sylvain stop trying to cover every inch of skin with his mouth and just do it, just go for it, just give him something. Give him anything.

Sylvain's breathing hard. He's not even talking any more, just making noises, like he's dying of thirst and Felix is water in the desert. Sylvain's thumbs, both of them, slide across his rim. _Finally_. Felix drops his head, panting, as Sylvain licks inside. 

There are many, many things that Felix especially enjoys—you could say loves—about fucking Sylvain: riding his dick, fucking him over the headboard, pulling his hair, sitting on his face with his dick in Sylvain's mouth. Eating him out is fine. Good enough. Not in the top ten. Being on the receiving end, though—god. 

Sylvain eats him out like he's a delicious parfait. Lapping at him with broad, wet strokes, his fucking tongue so—how can anyone do that. Sylvain loves this, he loves his face against Felix's ass. His tongue deep inside him like, fuck, like he can thinks he can bring Felix off just like this. Maybe he can. It's like something scraping along the marrow of his spine, a live wire sparking direct to the center of his brain.

Felix tries to arch his back, tries to push back and get more of Sylvain's tongue, tries to get him deeper, but Sylvain's got one of those broad hands on either cheek and won't let him go anywhere. Won't let him move, won't let him get more of what he wants.

He tries to say Sylvain's name. It comes out unintelligible, a sound of pure desperation. Tries again. "Sylv— _Sylvain_ —"

Sylvain can't even answer because his tongue is too fucking occupied teasing Felix without fucking giving him anything. He's just making these noises, like this is the best thing he could be doing, like Felix is the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. It's agony. It doesn't matter that the sheets are coarse and would probably hurt when his ass is in the air and he can't get down far enough to rub himself against them anyway. He's caught, caught between Sylvain's mouth and hands and thin air with no fucking _relief_. 

Sylvain's fingers pull him just a little bit wider and Sylvain's tongue licks deep and a white crack explodes at the base of his skull. He goes limp down his spine, head hanging from his neck, forehead against the mattress. He pants. There are tears in the corner of his eyes. He's still so hard he wants to cry. This is it, this has to be it, Sylvain's going to make him come without even touching his dick, finally—

Then the hot, wet pressure is—gone. 

Mother _fucker_. Felix makes a hideous noise of frustration. He was so close. He's so empty. Sylvain's hands are on his hips, Sylvain's hauling him upright. Felix is dead weight, but his body goes where Sylvain pulls it.

Sylvain holds him up, braced against his body. His head falls back against Sylvain's shoulder. He doesn't need to look to know his dick is jutting out, flushed and weeping. "Gonna kill you," he says, or tries to say, "swear to god—tear you apart—"

"Sounds hot." Sylvain's murmuring into the back of Felix's neck. Felix can't really hear it. Something about how Sylvain's got him, he tastes so good, sounds so good, whatever, it doesn't matter when he hasn't _come_. Sylvain's right hand strokes his hip, soothing, petting. Felix's hips jerk, uncontrollably, into the touch. If he'd just move his goddamned hand a few inches over—Sylvain's mouth leaves Felix's neck, travels up to his ear. "Almost there, baby," he says—sighs—god, his fucking voice.

"Get _in_ ," Felix grinds through his teeth. Sylvain's hands on his hips keep him steady as Sylvain's dick slides into him. Oh, that's good, it's not enough but it's good, he could drive himself back on that, writhe on it until he comes. Sylvain pulls his hips back, sinking in deeper. The noise Felix makes comes deep from the pit of his stomach, as close to pain as pleasure. "Sylvain," he gasps, and can't remember what he was going to say, "give me—Sylvain—"

Then Sylvain reaches around and wraps his hand around Felix's aching cock.

Felix's whole body arches in a backwards bow. Sylvain makes a noise against his neck. He reaches back blindly and grabs Sylvain's thigh, digs his nails in. God, thank _god_. It's good. It's so good. Sylvain's callouses drag across the tender, pulsing throb of his dick and that's it, it's practically over. He barely lasts a few pulls, caught between the hard grip around him and the hard length inside him, before it smacks him between the eyes and he's coming all over his chest and Sylvain's hand and his gaiter-clad thighs, throat raw, eyes watering.

He slumps forward, caught by Sylvain's hands. Sylvain eases him down, so he can catch himself on his hands and knees, and then lets him stay there, fucking him hard now, saying all kinds of shit, how Felix looks, how he feels. Felix can barely understand. He's somewhere else, on a different plane. Harder, faster, and then it's gone, Sylvain's pulled out, and wetness spatters the back of his thighs.

Felix collapses all the way to the mattress. Sylvain crashes behind him. They're both gasping for breath like they've run through a melee course. After a minute one of Sylvain's capable hands closes on Felix's hip—that sore throb means a bruise—and tugs him back, settles him in place for Sylvain to fit behind him. It's a good thing it's a cold night. Sylvain's a human furnace. Felix closes his eyes.

He drifts for a while, and comes to because Sylvain's murmuring something ridiculous again, against his hair. "—than my imagination," he's saying, "you always blow my mind, you're so goddamn much. I couldn't make you up."

Sylvain gets so mushy after sex. It's embarrassing, or it should be. Sylvain was probably born without knowing the meaning of the word.

It's fine. Felix doesn't hate it.

He rolls on his back. His thighs are throbbing with muscle burn and sore with the sting of a dozen new bruises. Sylvain props himself up on one arm. The position highlights the solid muscle of his bicep, the fading and freckled summer brown of his skin. Felix doesn't hurry to finish looking.

Sylvain's busy doing some looking of his own. Felix follows his gaze. His thighs are mottled, his gaiters ruined, crumpled and stretched and stained with come. 

Sylvain reaches out and curves his free hand around Felix's thigh. Rubs a thumb along the gaiter's hem, again, then over the closest emerging bruise, pressing down just a little, just enough to elicit a hiss from Felix. It's not a bad kind of sting, though. Felix shifts a little.

Sylvain spreads his hand flat against Felix's thigh. "Looks nice," he says. The low voice is back.

He's not wrong, though. Felix can see the appeal of the contrast. Sylvain's hand, his own pale and muscled thigh, the currant-purple of the new bruises, the dark blue of the gaiters, stained and well-used, the splashes of Sylvain's come drying. He bites his lip. 

"Felix," Sylvain says, already breathing heavier. "Felix."

This time Sylvain fucks his thighs, face to face, wet dick slipping between the bruised skin, rubbing it raw and tender before he comes all over them _again_. You'd think he'd get tired of it.

"I could never get tired of you," Sylvain says, low and hot, into the damp skin of his neck and the scary thing is that Felix knows exactly what he means.


End file.
